Shit happens
by IreneThe WomanAdler
Summary: Sherlock bollixes up John's date by arriving at the restorant and deducing his new girlfriend. Luckily, Mycroft happens to drop in soon afterwards...


"Doctor Watson," utters the older Holmes, arching his eyebrow in amusement, and nods in greeting, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Mycroft," John breathes out in confusion and gets up quickly. "What a surprise," clearing his throat, he extends his hand.

The politician, appreciating his gesture, snorts softly and, giving his callous hand a little squeeze, breaks the handshake and inquires politely, "A pleasure, I hope?"

"Depends on you," responds Watson in a good-natured manner, hiding a smirk, and then, straightening the sleeve of his dark gray suit jacket, adds without batting an eyelid, "Sorry".

"Never mind," dismisses his apology the older Holmes, narrowing his eyes and raising up his chin, and remarks in a soft voice, absentmindedly turning the fine ring on his finger, "It looks like the antics of my precious little brother aren't surprising you anymore".

"How do you—" John begins, but stops short, rolling his eyes, and mutters, "Dear Lord, why am I asking..."

"Do you mind?" asks Mycroft delicately, touching the back of the chair which was recently vacated because of Sherlock.

"People might talk," dark blond man replies automatically.

"They do little else," the politician utters in a peremptory tone, a small smile curling his lips.

Watson does not hold back a laugh.

* * *

"No, you couldn't," drawls John doubtfully and catches a sprig of parsley with a fork.

"You think so?" Mycroft lights up and, after making a quick work of putting a piece of veal into his mouth and chewing it, dabs his lips with a napkin and, laying the cutlery aside, leans back in his chair.

"Climb on the seventeenth floor, barely holding himself up because of the amount of alcohol consumed," the doctor shakes his head, pushing the greenery on the edge of the dish, "for the sake of carnal pleasures…" and, smiling like a brewer's horse, exclaims, "Hell no, not you."

"All of us were young and... stupid", remarks the older Holmes philosophically and loosens his tie, brushing against the platinum tie-pin.

"Sure," Watson snaps out sarcastically.

The politician reproachfully purses his lips.

"Sorry," John draws in his horns, almost dropping his fork, and, placing it next to a knife, hides behind a glass of white wine, sipping a wee dram. "And..." he falters, holding the tip of his tongue on the lower lip, "how did it go?"

"Margaret," answers Mycroft willingly, "if I remember her name correctly, threw the contents of her glass into my face," he falls silent for a moment, a thoughtful expression appearing on his face, "It seems," recalls a man with a reddish hair, "it was an apple juice".

"Bad luck," says the doctor, setting aside the finest wineglass.

"Shit happens," utters the older Holmes with a shade of irony. "What about you?" he runs his finger along a delicate stem.

"You mean—" pretending not to understand the question, John knits his brows.

"Don't play the shrinking violet, Doctor Watson," grins the politician.

"After drinking couple bottles of whiskey for six persons," gives up a fair-haired man under the gaze of dark-gray eyes, "I set out to impress my classmate with my vocal..." and explains, "My singing sucks".

Mycroft laughs quietly.

* * *

"I thought you don't smoke," John snorts, straightening the collar of his coffee-colored coat.

"And," the older Holmes exhales a gray puff of acrid smoke, thrusting a pack and a lighter in the pocket of his mouse-colored raincoat, "don't drink," he turns around, giving back three bright red roses, "and don't use obscene language in my speech".

"England can be proud of you," proclaims Watson solemnly, smoothing out the petals on a flower buds.

"Definitely," Mycroft confirms and, holding a cigarette firmly between his fingers, knocks off the ashes on the pavement.

"Modesty is certainly not your middle name," replies the doctor tartly.

"A family trait," retorts the politician. "But it's better not to remind Sherlock about it".

"Yeah, not a good idea," John clears his throat, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nice to see you", he says, "Turns out you can be a good company," and smiles contentedly.

"The same can be said about you, Doctor Watson," the older Holmes bows his head, returning the smile.

"John..." a fair-haired man corrects softly.

"John," Mycroft agrees and throws the cigarette butt in the rubbish bin.


End file.
